


Fill My Lungs (With Sweetness)

by WednesdaysDaughter



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Fade to Black, Feels, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Uses His Words, Hanahaki Disease, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Language of Flowers, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Tenderness, Witch Curses, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Ships It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22550071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WednesdaysDaughter/pseuds/WednesdaysDaughter
Summary: Five different flowers have passed through Jaskier's lips by the time they’re marching up a mountain to kill a dragon.There is no potion to dull the sharp prick of heartbreak when he sees how Geralt watches Yennefer: Desperate and filled with a jagged longing that echoes in Jaskier’s bones.- - - - - - - - -Hanahaki Disease anyone?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 239
Kudos: 3490
Collections: Fan Fiction Addiction, Fics good enough to send to my sister, Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette, Stupid Geralt/Sweet baby Jaskier





	1. Catastrophic Cultivation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo yeah.... this happened. The Hanahaki Disease trope is right up there with soulmates for me: I cannot get enough of people vomiting flowers because of unspoken/"unrequited" love. Give all of it to me. The title comes from "Bloom" by the Paper Kites which fits more with the theme of the 3rd chapter, but I struggled for 30 min for a title and just gave up lol

“But if I suffer, it is my own affair.”  
\- Edna St. Vincent Millay (Sonnet XXV)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
The day the witch curses his village begins like any other.

It isn’t until the baker begins to cough and a yellow petal falls from her trembling lips onto the dough she’d been kneading, that people realize something is amiss.

Sent by his mother to collect the daily groceries, Jaskier witnesses the chaos unfold as one petal turns to ten, ten to twenty until the baker pulls a yellow iris – stem and all – from the depths of her throat. Blood stains the vibrant flora, dripping down the baker’s lips and she drops the flower as if it bit her.

The gasps of horror drown out his own.

Jaskier stumbles from the bakery, barely escaping the maddened crowd, in time to see a dozen others bend forward and spew their own colorful garden onto the cobbled street. Someone crashes into him in their haste to escape the square and Jaskier blinks away tears as his elbow throbs. He stays down until the majority of those affected have been rushed to the healer’s.

Cautiously, Jaskier stands and turns to run home but is stopped when curiosity overwhelms common sense. Bending down he reaches out to touch a pile of petals and jerks back when he feels their softness.

A chuckle catches his attention and Jaskier looks up in time to see her: The witch. He blinks and she’s gone, swallowed up by the rush of guards as if swords and armor could help the afflicted choking in the streets. They clear the area and Jaskier runs home empty handed until he’s safe in the kitchen.

“Mother, you’ll never believe what happened!”

His voice is met with silence and horror grips Jaskier when he sees white dusting the floorboards like snow. His mother watches with a shaking hand curled over her mouth as Jaskier’s father pulls petals from his tongue. He runs to his mother and she pulls him close until he’s tangled in her long skirt.

“What’s happening?”

“Magic,” his father spits, “a curse.”

The following days are met with terse conversations and broken hearts. Before she dies, the baker passes on a warning gifted to her by the witch.

“ _I have planted the seeds for your destruction – or your greatest ecstasy. Bite your tongues if you wish, but the truth will bloom with blood and spit until your very insides have become the world you plunder. Love must be given room to grow; deny and it will consume your breath. Is your pride worth dying for_?”

The village works to gather the evidence of witchcraft and the bonfire spits sparks of blue and purple into the air until bright green embers remain. It doesn’t take a scholar to figure out the witch’s intent; lives are eventually spared, but at the cost of marriages and budding rivalries. Jealousy kills more than suffocation and soon Jaskier is standing in the ashes of a broken home.

His father cannot look him in the eye when he leaves with the mistress he’d been dallying with for two years. An affair turned to love, but left his mother with a hatred of flowers and four mouths to feed.

Two years later, when his older sister wakes him in the night they stare at the red tulip petals with anxiety clawing for freedom in their chests.

“You have to tell them.” Jaskier’s tone leaves no room for argument. He helps her clean up the evidence so as not to alarm their mother.

“What if they don’t feel the same way?” Nadia frets, her hands tearing a petal to pieces until they are indistinguishable from stray flecks of wool.

“Only an idiot would refuse your love.”

The surety in Jaskier’s voice makes her eyes water and she wraps her arms around him until the pressure nearly chokes him. He bares the sensation in silence, letting the pressure remind him that she is still alive.

She eventually pulls back, “Jask you must never fall in love.”

He laughs her concern away, but he can feel the conviction of her words as she stares at him: The weight of her eyes threatening to bruise like her arms.

“You don’t have to worry about that anytime soon Dia,” he assures, “what use do twelve-year-olds have for such a thing?”

She reaches up and runs a gentle hand through his hair, a wistful expression on her freckled face.

“You’d be surprised at how little say you have in matters of the heart.”

He doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night, too nervous to close his eyes although he hid it well from his sister. Come morning he offers to go with Nadia, but she just smiles and disappears through the doorway before he can finish breakfast.

The rest of the household remains blissfully unaware of Jaskier’s unease as time passes. He flips through books and plays with prose until he’s left unsatisfied and crumpled sheets of paper litter the floor.

Dinner is served, but Jaskier’s stomach is in knots and hunger is the last thing on his mind. He begs off and is out the door before his mother can convince him to stay. No one has seen Nadia all day; the sky is streaked with purple by the time he finds her in the field beyond the keep’s walls.

Wildflowers assault his nose causing him to sneeze.

Jaskier wonders if the lump in his throat feels anything like the flowers in Nadia’s. Her fist hides the decaying petals, but he pries her fingers apart. The sickly scent of death clings to her palm and Jaskier doesn’t realize he’s crying until she wipes away his tears.

“Don’t tell Mother.”

“But you’re going to die!”

Nadia cups his face in her hands, pollen dusting his pale cheeks though she tries to wipe it away.

“Winter is not far, I’ll make it look like the sweating sickness.”

His body shakes beneath his grief and when Nadia pulls him into her arms Jaskier clings with white fingers to her blue dress.

“She loves another Jaskier, it’s not her fault.”

Nadia’s reason does little to soothe his fractured heart as he howls loud enough to scare any encroaching predators. A single star twinkles in the distance and Jaskier wishes behind blurry eyes that Nadia will live.

“I won’t do it,” he swears looking up until their blue eyes meet, tears silently falling down Nadia’s face. “I’ll never fall in love.”

“Oh Jask,” she coos leaning forward until their foreheads meet, “of course you will.”

Opening his mouth to protest Jaskier’s words are lost in sporadic hiccups that leave him breathless and on fire. Nadia runs soothing hands up and down his back until he’s mimicking her deep breaths.

The silence is broken by her assurance; her words taking root in the deepest part of Jaskier’s soul where no magic can touch and her eyes focus on the same star.

“Your love will be returned tenfold little brother, of that I am certain.”

Nadia dies two weeks later.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jaskier finds the witch five years later.

‘ _Or perhaps she’s found me_ ,’ Jaskier muses while taking stock of her cabin. Herbs hang from the ceiling, brushing against his hair like lovers engaging in pillow talk. Runes carved into various surfaces around the room seem to move with him; following his steps with invisible eyes.

His entire body screams at him to leave, but Jaskier grits his teeth and stands a stubborn island in dangerous seas.

“So,” she says from the shadows, “the scared boy from the square has something to say.”

Jaskier whips around and raises his chin dripping with arrogance that doesn’t belong to him.

“Your curse failed.”

“Did it now?”

She’s humoring him; her sweet voice curdling the blood pumping frantically through Jaskier’s veins. He is prey and the predator is content to play with its food. He clings to the bravado like a shield and continues.

“Indeed, I’ve fallen in love several times and no flora came pouring from my sought after lips.”

Her cackle sends shivers down his spine.

“You poor boy, you call that love? Flittering about as a bumblebee from flower to flower promising the world to beauties you’ve forgotten the names of.”

She paints a cruel picture of his encounters across the continent. While Jaskier knows that sex does not equal love, he is intimately familiar with the line that separates the two. He’s spent sleepless nights with their faces in his mind; body calling out for warmth unique to a select few. Surely, that longing is cousin to love.

“Tell me, how long do you linger? Do you stay long enough to get your fix and cure a craving so basic that animals laugh at your floundering?”

She circles him, a vulture intent on sinking sharp claws into his rotting flesh. Jaskier meets her stare and he’s not foolish enough to pretend the light in her eye is respect: It is amusement. He came ready to play a game, but Jaskier never read the rules.

“No, the honey you seek has driven men to murder, women to starvation and death. When it hits you little bard, you will be defenseless and wanting: Choking on the precious seeds I planted years ago.”

“I speak of bats, not butterflies, nipping at your insides – gnawing at your bones until you’re weak-kneed in their presence.”

She paints a painful picture and suddenly Jaskier is twelve again, promising to never fall in love.

“You killed innocent people!” he hisses enraged when he recalls Nadia in her final days.

“Fools, the whole lot of them,” she scoffs, “A little bit of honesty and their lives belong to them again.”

“They were afraid,” Jaskier’s fists clench automatically when she laughs.

“Excuses,” she grins, “Pathetic excuses used by pathetic mortals determined to let a simple emotion control their life and dictate their death.”

“And what of my sister: What of those who did confess but whose affections were not returned? Nadia died choking on decayed tulips in the middle of the night!”

The witch shrugs and he’s gripped by rage.

Jaskier shoves her into a table; bottles shattering when they hit the ground, liquid splashing out in hopes of making contact with something living.

“Some people love too deeply, boy. Self-sabotage at its finest.”

Her retaliation is quick and leaves Jaskier bent over, hands splayed over his chest as fire races across his sternum. He gags, fully expecting colors to burst from his lips, but eventually the pain sinks into his skin and evaporates like smoke.

“Don’t worry; it’s not your time yet. You will be the prettiest of my creations.”

Chin caught between her thumb and forefinger, Jaskier struggles but she tightens her grip until the press of her nails against his skin threatens to draw blood.

“A great weeping willow,” she murmurs, “darned with flowers which speak of unimaginable longing and heartbreak. You will be a gift to nature and a warning to lovers everywhere.”

Before Jaskier can reply the witch tosses a handful of dust into his eyes and darkness takes him. He wakes in his bed at the inn, his room untouched and warm from the hearth. By the time he’s gathered his wits and marched to the outskirts of the village the cabin has disappeared. No one in the general vicinity can recall its existence and they give Jaskier a wide berth as he raves to the sky.

Exhaustion hits him like a runaway cart so he returns to the inn and sleeps for fifteen hours. He wakes to the taste of dirt in the back of his mouth and remembers the witch’s words.

‘ _Seems I’ve been cursed again_ ,’ Jaskier concludes after speaking with the local healer. Her eyes hold mountains of pity in their gray depths, but she advises seeking out other witches in hopes they could break the enchantment.

The last thing Jaskier ever wants to see is another witch, but he thanks her for the advice and decides to leave town before anything else happens. The road is cold and lonely; giving Jaskier plenty of time to recall past lovers and the shape of affection he molded with eager hands.

As he travels, Jaskier asks his paramours if they’d ever been in love and how to tell it from general attraction. He realizes it’s as different as the shifting sunsets from season to season and yet at the same time, love – at its core – is remarkably similar across individuals who differ in every way.

Utilizing the experiences of others, Jaskier’s compositions leave patrons melancholy as they cling to the bodies next to them. There’s something missing at the heart of the melody, but coin flows into Jaskier’s pockets and his bed is warmed by strangers who are touched by his voice.

Occasionally an ache beneath his breast will pull Jaskier from sleep, but he pays it little mind when his lungs remain flower free. Years ago, he’d dismissed Nadia’s words believing himself capable of controlling how and when he would experience love.

It will be years before he realizes exactly how little power he has when love lets itself be known.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The first time it happens Jaskier thinks it’s a fluke.

He’d been traveling with Geralt on and off for six years when they come across a pack of wargs. Geralt’s growl rivals the alpha’s and he shoves Jaskier out of the way when a warg lunges – jaws snapping as it attempts to tear the bard to pieces.

“Fuck!” Jaskier swears when he tumbles backwards into river. It’s a shock to his system, but the cold motivates him to move farther from the scuffle. He’s coughing, trying to dispel the water he accidentally swallowed when Geralt finds him.

“If you wanted a bath all you had to do was say so.”

“Oh ha ha ha: No one would believe me if I said you had a sense of humor.”

“Hmm.”

Together they trudge up the small slope back to where Roach and their belongings rest. Geralt is the first to notice the pink petal clinging to Jaskier’s soaked doublet and reaches out to brush it off.

“Oh,” Jaskier startles as the unexpected touch, “thank you.”

Geralt grunts and turns to set up camp, leaving Jaskier with his turbulent thoughts.

Jaskier’s eyes follow the petal’s path until it lands on the ground; a vivid contract against the dark green moss. When he notices the handful of wildflowers on the edge of the river he lets out a sigh of relief. Surely the petal came from the water and not his lungs. Jaskier waits for the itch in his throat to return and it does not. Two weeks later they part ways and Jaskier returns to Oxenfurt in hopes of hearing word of the witch.

His home was not the only one to suffer her curse, but there had been no word of a cure. By the time he and Geralt cross paths again, Jaskier has pushed the incident far from his mind and doesn’t think about the way the smile blooms across his lips when he sees Geralt in the tavern.

The third time it happens Jaskier is too drunk to notice.

The crowd is eating out of the palm of his hand. Ale and coin flow freely from cheerful patrons as they celebrate the death of a local terror: A vicious hellhound. Geralt occupies his usual corner, lifting his pint when Jaskier turns to make eye contact.

He doesn’t smile outright, but Jaskier spots the twitch of Geralt’s lips and beams – fingers plucking his lute with unparalleled exuberance. He winks at the barmaid whose tunic ties had loosened considerably since he began.

After a second encore, Jaskier slides into a seat at the bar and proceeds to flirt with the beauty across the way. She jerks her head towards an unoccupied closet and Jaskier’s letting her pull him through the throng of bodies. He isn’t sure what makes him turn, but before leaving the room Jaskier turns in time to see a handsome lad slide next to Geralt, eyes trailing up and down the witcher’s physique with naked appreciation.

It throws Jaskier off balance when he witnesses Geralt tilt his head and eye his company in a similar manner.

He takes a quick swig of ale and begins to cough.

“Easy there love,” the barmaid purrs and plucks the tankard from his hands to put it on a table. Jaskier laughs once he can breathe and then wakes up on the floor of his shared room with Geralt.

“Oh my head,” he groans choosing to roll over until his chest is against the cool hardwood. His heated cheeks find relief and when he opens his eyes it take Jaskier a minute to realize what he’s seeing.

White and yellow petals decorate the floor beneath the bed; looking as if they belong there of all places.

The world holds its breath as Jaskier’s eyes widen and he shoots to his feet, ignoring the head rush that nearly brings him to his knees. 

His eyes frantically scan the floor and it’s a warm breeze that pulls his attention from one part of the room to another. Outside the open window, vines of honeysuckle cling to the weathered brick, their existence bringing overwhelming relief to Jaskier.

That relief sticks with him all day after Geralt comes in with an awful concoction that rids Jaskier of his hangover.

“Geralt my friend,” Jaskier sighs, “I owe you one.”

Geralt just shakes his head and mentions another job two villages south of their current location.

“Are you coming?”

Jaskier doesn’t hesitate, “Was there ever any doubt?”

The sixth time it happens Jaskier can no longer deny the truth.

He’s with Chireadan when the coughing starts. It is nothing like the djinn, but it leaves him breathless and desperate all the same. At first it’s just blood, most likely a remnant from his engorged throat. When the petals get caught along his teeth he pulls them out with reluctance and Chireadan gasps.

“That is from a morning glory – a redstar.”

Jaskier does not doubt the elf’s words; he's familiar with various species of flora and fauna due to the curse. He also knows what it means: Endless, or in some cases, unrequited, love.

“Well that’s fantastic,” Jaskier spits.

“I have heard of this curse,” Chireadan admits, “but I’ve never met anyone suffering from its effects.”

Jaskier winces when an intact flower falls to his feet after he heaves so hard it makes his eyes water.

“It killed my sister and drove my father into the arms of another woman.”

“I am sorry.”

Jaskier’s smile is bitter, but he accepts the sincerity with a quick nod, “Thank you.”

The coughing stops after that, the lingering taste of dirt mixes with blood until he’s begging for water to rinse his mouth out. Chireadan gives him a waterskin and waits until Jaskier has finished to pose his question.

“Will you tell the witcher?”

‘ _Of course he figured it out_ ,’ Jaskier huffs, ‘ _must be obvious to everyone but Geralt_.’

“Won’t you die if you remain silent?”

“I’ll die if I say something.”

Chireadan shakes his head, “Surely you don’t believe that or you wouldn’t travel with him.”

Snorting, Jaskier concedes, “You’re right: I’m just being dramatic because I suddenly realize what my sister meant and it’s mortifying to be chastised by a ghost.”

“You’d be surprised how often that is the case my friend.” Chireadan says softly and Jaskier realizes if anyone understands a fraction of how he feels, it’s Chireadan.

“Bet she’s laughing at me from wherever she is now…”

Geralt’s voice interrupts their conversation and Jaskier slinks from the tent with a quick wave to Chireadan. He doesn’t think about the mess he left in the healer’s tent as he walks beside Roach on the way to the next village.

Instead, Jaskier focuses on composing the love ballad to end all love ballads.

“How’s your throat?” Geralt asks when they set up camp that night in a clearing where the wildflowers mock the garden growing in Jaskier’s chest.

“Much better now that we’ve left all that nonsense behind us.”

Geralt snorts and studies Jaskier from across the fire; the weight of his gaze making Jaskier’s skin breakout in goosebumps. There’s a question in the witcher’s eyes, but Jaskier fakes a loud yawn and retires for the night.

He wakes to red petals plastered against his face from where he tried to smother his coughs and Jaskier dashes to the nearby pond to wash away yesterday’s events.

After returning from washing up, Jaskier sees Geralt holding a red petal in his hand and freezes, ‘ _Well shit._ ’

Geralt opens his mouth to say something when an arrow suddenly embeds itself in the tree next to his head. Jaskier had never been happier to see a group of bandits in his entire life.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Five different flowers have passed through his lips by the time they’re marching up a mountain to kill a dragon.

Jaskier is a nervous bundle of paranoia when he wakes and sees he is alone. He worried that Yennefer saw him stash the latest blossom – a blue hyacinth – in his pants after he had walked a ways down the path to die in peace.

The stems are the worst part in Jaskier’s opinion.

‘ _Second worst_ ,’ Jaskier moans when he touches the tender patch of skin along his sternum that has recently taken on a green hue.

‘ _I’m going to be a tree!_ ’

Jaskier’s unhinged laugh rings out; bouncing off rock and ricocheting in his mind until he nearly begins to cry. His chest aches beneath the weight of words he’s swallowed every time Geralt looks at him. This is the madness the witch spoke of; a love so destructive it mangles his body like a hurricane.

There is no potion to dull the sharp prick of heartbreak when he sees how Geralt watches Yennefer: Desperate and filled with a jagged longing that echoes in Jaskier’s bones.

He tried to say it, without actually saying it.

“We could head to the coast; get away for a while. Life is too short. Do what pleases you, while you can.”

Jaskier had wanted to reach out and touch Geralt, link their fingers until vines crawled from his mouth to bind their hands together.

“Composing your next song?”

Geralt’s tone was almost playful, almost light enough for Jaskier to believe that he’d be receptive to the truth: Almost.

“No,” Jaskier chuckled wryly, “I’m just… uh… trying to figure out what pleases me.”

When the familiar itch crept up his throat Jaskier excused himself and clutched the pink camellia to his chest. The edges of its petals had browned, like Nadia’s, and Jaskier realized when the sun set on the mountain that he was dying.

The next day Jaskier wonders if he’s already dead when Geralt shoves a metaphorical blade between his weakened ribs. He imagines twisted roots clinging to bone until he’s overcome with the desire to flee.

He vomits red and blue salvia blooms into a bush before going to the dwarves. Three hours later he pulls honeysuckle from the back of his throat until blood drips onto the dirt with greying buds. The decay is setting in; rotting Jaskier from the inside out until his body is swallowed by willow bark.

Jaskier walks through the night until he spots the familiar shapes of civilization on the horizon. Barefield is a welcome sight and when the innkeeper recognizes him a room is prepared and a healer is called when he notices the blood on Jaskier’s clothing.

“You are dying.”

Jaskier tries not to laugh and fails, flicking water from the tub he didn’t ask for.

“I mean no disrespect, but your services are not required. I’m sure there are folk here who would benefit from your skills: I am not one of them.”

“Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

Jaskier yelps, hands instantly covering his lap when he sees Yennefer standing in the doorway. She rolls her eyes at his antics and dismisses the healer. Once they’re alone, Jaskier watches her slide her coat off and rest it on his bed.

She crouches down beside the tub and lays a palm on his forehead.

Yennefer jerks back in alarm when Jaskier cries out – the spot where she touched suddenly screaming as if on fire.

“Fuck.”

“Yep,” Jaskier winces, cradling his head in shaking hands.

“I can’t break her spell.”

“I kinda figured that from the excruciating pain, thanks.”

Yennefer doesn’t rise to the bait; instead she pulls a silver box from her coat and begins speaking to someone. Jaskier doesn’t pay attention to her conversation, choosing to focus on scrubbing the blood from beneath his fingernails.

“I have a friend in Temeria who might be able to slow the spread of the spell, but it’s not a permanent fix Jaskier.”

“Why do you care?”

He feels like she’s dissecting him, her purple eyes stripping him of all defenses until he’s naked in a different way.

“Is Geralt worth your life?”

Jaskier stands, accepting the towel she hands him with quiet thanks. Once it’s secured around his waist Jaskier walks past her until he can see outside the window; the sky streaked with colors he’s intimately familiar with these days.

“Does it matter? Ignoring the fact he’s utterly besotted with you, he sees me as a burden – his own personal curse in this world. My love would never be returned. ”

“I didn’t picture you as a defeatist, bard.” Yennefer taunts in an attempt to dispel his pity party. Jaskier croaks, the sound a bitter and twisted thing that makes Yennefer’s frown deepen. 

“This curse has been tailored to me personally, you see. I stumbled upon the witch who damned my village and I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”

He leans forward, hands scraping against the windowsill until abrasions dust his palms. “I’m going to turn into a tree Yennefer, a fucking tree.”

“Trees can’t sing,” he mourns – fingers itching to pluck his lute for what could be the last time, “I’d be a shitty tree.”

When he feels Yennefer’s hand on his shoulder he doesn’t flinch, grateful for the silent support from a woman he never expected it from.

“It’s artificial, the tie Geralt created between us and the sooner he realizes it the better. But this,” Yennefer grasps Jaskier’s shoulders and turns him until they’re facing each other, “the love you feel for Geralt is real.”

“For all the good it’s done me.”

“You could always quit being a bard and open a flower shop.”

It takes him a minute and the laughter that comes pouring from Jaskier’s mouth is surprised and bright and it’s contagious. Yennefer joins in and suddenly Jaskier’s crying in her arms like a babe.

“Don’t tell him, please don’t tell Geralt.”

Yennefer wants to scream in frustration or set something on fire, instead she settles for talking sense into his head.

“Geralt is many things Jaskier, stupid is not one of them. He’s going to figure it out with or without my help.”

“He was already suspicious,” Jaskier confesses and Yennefer allows herself to hope for an ending where Jaskier doesn’t become one with nature.

“Good, now that you’ve got that out of your system, you’re going to get dressed and we’re leaving this place. I’d offer to hunt down the witch who did this to you, but something tells me Geralt will beat me to it.”

“Yennefer…” Jaskier whines, wanting to deny any hope she attempts to placate him with, but her conviction reminds him of Nadia’s.

“I saw it on his face the day we met, Jaskier. Yours is not a tale of unrequited love so put some pants on and lets go.”

Jaskier’s smile hangs crooked from fragile lips, but he hasn’t coughed up a flower in hours and something new and bright takes root among the wreckage: Hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower meanings because why not! I grabbed these from the old farmer's almanac so some might have slightly different meaning depending on culture/time period.
> 
> Iris (yellow) = passion  
> Tulip (red) = declaration of love/passion  
> Camellia (pink) = longing for you  
> Honeysuckle = bonds of love/happiness  
> Morning Glory (red) = endless/unrequited love  
> Hyacinth (blue) = consistency of love  
> Salvia/Sage (red) = forever mine (blue) = I think of you


	2. Budding Silently

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna lie, I struggled with this chapter. I'm not sure why but apparently Geralt and I don't get along? I just find him harder to write than Jaskier. I've experienced the same problem with other characters like Derek Hale, Thorin Oakenshield, Bucky Barnes, Spock... oh god. It's the tall, dark, and broody ones. 
> 
> Suddenly my affinity (and ease) for writing Stiles, Bilbo, Steve and Kirk makes sense. 
> 
> Oh well, hopefully this isn't complete crap.

“I am aware, sure, I am aware: Catastrophically aware.”  
– Sylvia Plath  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Four years before the events at Blaviken branded him with an unfortunate moniker, Geralt of Rivia happened upon a cursed fortress.

It was a five days ride south of Maribor and had it not been for the overwhelming stench of decay, Geralt would’ve continued past. The air felt static, indicating magic had been used within its walls recently. Half-burned piles of flora and ivy were in every corner, Geralt’s senses strong enough to identify the color and type of flowers without rummaging through the debris.

In the center of the courtyard stood a witch; her hair a scarlet curtain trailing behind with the breeze.

“Hello witcher, come to admire my work?”

“And what exactly would that be? Gardening? Your flowers are dead.”

His fingers twitch in time with her cackle; it’s callous timbre raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Geralt doesn’t see any bodies and the scent of blood is weeks old – the amount nowhere near enough to kill a human. His instincts tell him something wicked happened here, but a contract hasn’t been accepted and the witch hasn’t attacked.

“Such is the way of things.”

“Hmm.”

Her smile is cold and the medallion around Geralt’s neck pulses when their eyes meet. Neither blink, seconds melting into minutes, until the witch eventually shrugs and breaks contact.

“We’ll meet again witcher; fate has a sense of humor I’ve found.”

Portal conjured, the witch disappears before Geralt can dismiss the notion altogether. While he didn’t believe in the unforeseen force, he knew trouble followed the witch and where there was trouble he wouldn’t be far behind – if the coin was good.

It often was.

Whispers of a powerful curse float from tavern to tavern, inn to inn, as Geralt travels the continent. Monsters are blamed (and consequently slain), the common folk are scared, and piles of petals become common place in smaller settlements. The stench of blood clings to the rotting flora, peaking Geralt’s interest.

He inquires with a level of tact he is not known for and is told by mourning family members about a loved one’s demise.

“Choked on the tulips, my daughter did. Damn that boy who broke her heart and left her crying in my bed ‘til death came.”

“His wife up and left, confessed she’d been sleeping with the cook and that it was love! Soon as she said it, the coughing fits stopped and she lives to this day with her lady love.”

“My husband left me with six mouths to feed, hope that bastard rots in Hell for what he did. I said the vows, kept our home clean and his bed warm for years and that bastard barely hiccups a buttercup before he’s out the door – right as rain!”

The stories vary from person to person, but the core remains unchanged.

By the time he’s found himself on the Old Road, heading towards Brugge, he’s heard two dozen tales of woe and been offered 225 Orens to break the curse. Killing the witch will destroy her enchantment, but she’s ready and waiting for him with unpleasant news.

“The woman who offered you the bounty will be dead three nights before you return; the lilies in her lungs will lead to suffocation.”

Geralt sighs.

“Can I ask why?”

Her cabin in the distance looks warm and inviting, but Geralt knows it is an illusion; a trap. The witch pretends to think about the question and by the time she’s finished Geralt’s drafted three plans of attack which will end in failure.

“Why not?”

She delights in his exasperation and waves a quick farewell before flinging him across the road – the cabin a hundred miles away by the time he rights himself.

Roach huffs in disappointment.

“Yeah,” Geralt echoes, “me too.”

Pride bruised, he trudges along the Old Road until he comes upon the witch’s latest work. The scent of fear is cloying; churning Geralt’s stomach with every inhale of the sour odor. Rosebuds and stalks of snapdragons have been tossed into man-made trenches.

Geralt watches the townsfolk set the offending flora on fire, smoke burning his sensitive eyes though he does not look away.

“Love should not be wielded in such a way.”

The air swirls around his guest; another witch. She feels different than the last one he encountered and when she pets Roach, the horse leans into her touch. Piling magic upon magic rarely ends well, but it can lead to interesting solutions nonetheless.

“Can’t you do something about this?”

“Can’t you?” she accuses.

“Hmm.”

Children cling to their parents, picking petals apart to satisfy their curiosity. The scene reminds Geralt of plague sites which only serves to rankle him further. Sensing his agitation the witch sighs.

“Her name has long been forgotten, but we call her Inga. Her curse has disrupted hundreds of lives; killed more than I can bear to count.”

“I cannot be the first tasked with stopping her.”

“You’re the first one she hasn’t killed, which doesn’t bode well for you.”

Geralt cocks his head, “What do you mean?”

The witch smiles with sorrow splashed across her blue eyes, “She has plans for you witcher. I shudder to think what they could be.”

Petting Roach once more the witch leaves Geralt’s side to join the crowd gathered around the dying flames. With the flick of her wrist the fire roars to life and Geralt lingers long enough to watch the flowers reduce to ash.

The bite of winter hovers in the air and Geralt decides to push the worries of witches away for the season. He will speak with Vesemir and come up with a plan of attack while the natural world slumbers.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Traveling with Jaskier is an experience.

Positive or negative, Geralt hasn’t decided yet, but he debates the merits of abandoning Jaskier less and less as time passes. When parted, Jaskier’s words follow him wherever he goes – the moniker of ‘White Wolf’ settles over him like a warm cloak. People still cross themselves when he passes by and it’ll take more than a few songs to repair his reputation, but Geralt finds more people tolerating his existence than demanding his head.

Geralt tells himself he doesn’t care about the opinions of humans, but when Jaskier’s eyes light up in a tavern on the opposite end of the continent where they parted ways Geralt knows that isn’t entirely true.

Jaskier proves his value with every wound he tends and bath he procures. Geralt hoards his thanks like a miser stashes coin, but every once in a while he’ll find himself in possession of lute strings or sweet rolls that he shoves into Jaskier’s hands the second they meet again.

“How is it that you know exactly what I need before I do?” Jaskier asks with gratitude after tuning his lute. He devoured the sweets Geralt provided; sucking on his fingers without a care in the world as Geralt tried desperately to push the sounds from his mind.

The vibrant sunset hugs the bard’s back until he appears to be glowing. The sight makes Geralt’s heart clench – a reaction becoming more and more common the more time spent together.

“Lucky guess,” he mumbles before stomping into the brush to hunt.

He doesn’t get far when he hears the familiar growl of an alpha warg. Jaskier’s yelp motivates Geralt to whip around and unsheathe his sword – charging back into the clearing. Jaskier’s next to Roach, brandishing a large branch at the six wargs creeping forward.

One of them lunges forward, ready to make Jaskier their dinner when Geralt reaches out and shoves the bard a little harder than intended.

“Fuck!” Jaskier exclaims and Geralt can hear the splash of water signaling Jaskier’s journey into the river. He doesn’t give it much thought and cuts his sword sharply down into the attacking warg. Roach kicks one that attempts to nip at her hindquarters and together they make quick work of the pack.

Once he’s sure the area is secure, Geralt turns and heads down the slope to collect Jaskier. He’s drenched, but unharmed: The unamused look on Jaskier’s face does not make him laugh, but it’s a close call.

“If you wanted a bath all you had to do was say so.”

“Oh ha ha ha: No one would believe me if I said you had a sense of humor.”

Geralt smirks, offering Jaskier a hand out of the water which is taken out of necessity when Jaskier nearly slips on a rock. Their chests meet and Geralt wonders if the flush on Jaskier’s cheeks are from the cold water or their proximity.

“Hmm.”

He wants it to be the latter.

Back in the clearing, Jaskier riffles through his pack for a change of clothes when Geralt notices a pink petal against the blue doublet. He doesn’t hesitate to reach out and brush it away; the camellia soft against his calloused fingertips.

‘ _Was it my touch or the petal that startled him?_ ’ Geralt wonders when Jaskier practically jumps out of his skin.

‘ _Come to think of it, these don’t normally bloom this far north_.’

Geralt decides there are more important things to focus on when he sees the mess the wargs made of their belongings. Eventually he snares two hares for dinner and Jaskier fills the silence with the latest melodies. Night falls and Geralt offers to take watch, waiting until Jaskier has fallen asleep to find the pink petal amidst the moss.

He’s not sure what urges him to tuck it into a spare pouch, but Geralt’s medallion hums when he touches it: A mystery for another night.

Traveling without Jaskier is quiet.

Geralt does not miss it too much when he hears the bard’s voice through the open windows of the inn.

He’s whipped the crowd into a frenzy; coin flies in the air as Jaskier catches them in a bowl. Sweat slides down his face as he flutters about from table to table while Geralt orders a pint and slides into the far corner. By now the people have heard about the hellhound’s defeat which Jaskier capitalizes on when the opening notes of “Toss A Coin” fill the room.

Their cheers are deafening.

A few patrons recognize Geralt and toast to his success. Grimacing, Geralt nods tightly until his eyes catch Jaskier’s and the bard lights up like the sun – his pulse’s erratic rhythm making itself home in Geralt’s ears.

He raises his tankard, lips twitching without consent, and Geralt swallows the bitter hops to overwhelm the taste of jealousy when he sees Jaskier wink at the barmaid. This was a new sensation, one that left Geralt feeling wrong-footed and surly.

It had been three months since Cintra, three months since Geralt had Jaskier’s hands in his hair with honey scented soap. He’s lost count how many nights he has awoken to the phantom sensation of hands scraping his scalp: Arousal burning its way through his veins.

Geralt’s eyes track Jaskier’s movements around the room until he sees the barmaid lead him towards a back hallway.

He almost stands when the heat of another body sliding next to him pulls his attention from Jaskier’s escapades. His sudden guest is attractive and while Geralt is beyond preening like a hormone-fueled youth the naked appreciation in the man’s eyes is not unwelcome.

His eyes return the silent flirtation, but when he hears Jaskier break into a coughing fit the moment is gone. Geralt leaves his ale and company without a backwards glance and parts the crowd with ease.

“Easy there love,” the barmaid says but with one look from Geralt she slips the bard into his arms and goes back to work. Jaskier is drunk; loose limbed and dizzy from the lack of food in his stomach. Geralt bares the entirety of his weight and guides him up the stairs.

“Witcher,” a voice calls behind him, “a word when you have a moment?”

Geralt grunts an affirmative and after tucking Jaskier into their shared bed he pivots to open the window. The aroma of honeysuckle wafts in and its sweetness reminds him of warm baths and gentle fingers.

“Fuck.”

Outside of their door yellow and white petals wait on the wooden floor. He pockets them without a second thought and goes to see what monster needs killing. Some local bandits cause trouble down the road and Geralt spends the night tracking them to their lair, not returning to town until sunrise.

He whips up a concoction to ease Jaskier’s inevitable headache. The barmaid from the previous night hands him some bread as well and her wink is too perceptive for his liking. Jaskier is awake and staring out the window as if it held all the answers to questions he hadn’t asked yet.

“Drink this.”

Geralt shoves the tankard into Jaskier’s hands and proceeds to gather their packs.

“Geralt my friend,” Jaskier sighs, “I owe you one.”

The relief in his voice warms the space behind Geralt’s ribs and he mentions his latest job south of their current location.

“Are you coming?”

Jaskier doesn’t hesitate, “Was there ever any doubt?”

The tension he hadn’t been aware he was carrying drops from his shoulders and Geralt ignores the weight of Jaskier’s eyes on his back.

Traveling with Jaskier is dangerous for his health.

Jaskier’s too.

His head is a twisted mess from Yennefer’s nimble enchantment, slipping past decades of defenses as easily as Renfri. Lilac lingers on his tongue and Yennefer’s fingertips left invisible imprints on his skin; as if marking her territory.

Geralt feels drunk as he leaves the roofless castle.

He follows the trace of Jaskier’s blood which is embedded in the back of his mind like a warning. Echoes of his pained gasps replay on a torturous loop in Geralt’s mind, driving him to walk faster down the dirt path.

There’s something else buried in the blood and fear, a sweet note of nature that fills him with a sense of foreboding. It reminds Geralt of the camellia and honeysuckle: It reminds him of death.

Roach nudges his shoulder, disrupting his troubled thoughts.

“I’m worried about him too.”

She lips at sleeve, teeth closing gently around his forearm where Yennefer’s nails left trails of fire. The judgement in her gaze is enough to make him squirm.

“She messed with my head and we were almost crushed by a roof. It felt… natural to do that.”

If horses could roll their eyes Geralt is certain Roach would never stop. She increases the pressure of her bite until he jerks his arm from her reach.

“Enough.”

Shaking her head, Roach quickens her pace forcing Geralt to jog to catch up. He doesn’t grab her reins, knowing it’ll result in her kicking him to the ground. Roach’s displeasure stings, but it’s pushed to the wayside when Geralt catches the whiff of melancholy on the breeze: Chireadan’s tent its origin.

Jaskier’s voice is muffled and stops suddenly when Geralt calls his name. Once reunited, Jaskier pausing to pet Roach who shoves her head into his chest, they head east.

They walk for a few hours, Jaskier’s voice filling the silence like normal as he plays with metaphors and rhymes until something begins to take shape. It sounds like a love song, but something tells Geralt it doesn’t have a happy ending.

“How’s your throat?” Geralt asks once they finished setting up camp. The wildflowers remind him of the pouch tucked away in Roach’s saddle and his throat burns from the questions he hasn’t voiced yet.

“Much better now that we’ve left all that nonsense behind us.”

There’s a sudden spike of anger mixed with sadness in Jaskier’s scent which steals the reply from Geralt’s mouth. Instead he exhales sharply and studies Jaskier from across the fire. Clearly uncomfortable beneath his gaze, Jaskier eventually mumbles some excuse and curls into his bedroll – facing away from Geralt.

The sense of apprehension intensifies throughout the night when Geralt’s meditation is interrupted by several muted coughs. Once the sun’s rays make their way past the canopy above, Geralt opens his eyes in time to see Jaskier dart from the clearing.

His yelp when he makes contact with the cold water of a nearby pond makes Geralt’s lips curl. When his eyes land on the red petals next to Jaskier’s bedroll the amusement evaporates.

His fingers close around the morning glory and like with the others his medallion pulses; the aura of magic more potent than it had been in the past. Blood drops cover the surrounding grass and the red petal; blending in perfectly against the flower’s natural hue.

A chill runs down Geralt’s spine and wraps around his heart like frost; the realization of what’s been happening to Jaskier for months – years – tears into him like a rabid wolf bent on displaying his intestines for the world to see.

‘ _Have I kept him from his love?_ ’

Geralt’s mind buzzes as if another enchantment has been placed upon him. Gut twisting with an emotion akin to despair, Geralt tries to conjure an image of the person who holds Jaskier’s life in their hands.

A dozen questions flutter about like bees, stinging until the venom overcomes his ability to reason. A branch cracks, Geralt’s head whips up and Jaskier’s so pale when he sees what Geralt is holding. Time itself seems to pause; waiting for the inevitable.

Geralt opens his mouth to say something when an arrow suddenly embeds itself in the tree next to his head.

‘ _Fucking bandits._ ’

Jaskier manages to trip one, sending him careening into their dwindling fire. The next few minutes blur one into another, until the bandits eventually flee. Jaskier crows in delight, bending over to gather their things before he begins babbling about anything and everything. Geralt knows a defense tactic when he sees one and decides not to push the bard.

Two days later Jaskier gives a hasty farewell, babbling about a friend in need up north, and Geralt is left wishing he’d pushed.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“So you’ve lost the sorceress and chased off the bard. I’ll admit, I didn’t see the second part coming.”

Geralt’s teeth ache from clenching his jaw.

The vitriol he hurled at Jaskier burns his tongue, sliding down his throat like oil until he feels the urge to vomit. Heartbreak doesn’t have a singular scent; rather it is a concoction of several emotions blended together and it differs depending on the person.

Geralt doesn’t have the words to describe what heartbreak smells like coming from Jaskier because it reminds him too much of death. The perfume of hyacinths and salvia did not sweeten the bitter odor – if anything they hit heavier, reminding him that Jaskier was indeed dying.

Borch settles next to Geralt and asks him the question he’d been turning over in his head since Jaskier left.

“What’ll you do now?”

“I find a witch.”

Geralt cannot help but hope to find Jaskier on his journey down the mountain. The disappointment is not unexpected, but he feels its blade all the same. He asks around Barefield and is surprised to hear both Jaskier and Yennefer were seen entering and leaving together.

Under different circumstances he’d be wary of their companionship, but Geralt wonders if Yennefer figured out what’s happened to Jaskier and offered her assistance.

‘ _Maybe they’ll keep each other out of trouble._ ’

As if hearing his thoughts, Roach snorts loudly before nudging his shoulder with her nose.

“Yeah,” Geralt allows, “I don’t know what I was thinking either.”

They head southwest until Geralt picks up a few contracts in Beauclair: A nest of vampires in the mountains followed by a werewolf hiding along the river. He inquires around town until he hears about a witch in northern Toussaint who’d rid an abusive Arl of his land by scaring him out of his home.

Four months have passed since he saw Yennefer by the time he meets her at the gates of her latest estate.

“He’s not here.” She greets Geralt with crossed arms and calculating eyes.

“I’m not looking for him.”

She scoffs, “Good, because I wouldn’t tell you where he was if you were.”

“Yen,” the exasperation in Geralt’s voice makes her smirk, “I didn’t come here to fight. I just want to know if you broke his curse.”

“I can’t.”

It costs her to admit her failure, but not as much as it costs Geralt to accept it.

“Fuck.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Is he safe at least?”

Her gaze burns as always, but not with its initial intensity. Her perfume teases his nose, but it does not entice as it did in the past. Geralt knows a part of him will always belong to Yennefer, wish or no wish, but it is not by choice.

Year after year Jaskier chose Geralt, and Geralt chose him back.

Whatever she sees makes Yennefer’s smile soften and Geralt's left feeling like he passed some kind of test. She jerks her head and he follows her into the foyer. She offers him food and a place to stay the night after they’ve taken a seat in the study – a hot meal already waiting on desk.

“I won’t tell you where he is, but I was able to track down the witch who’s responsible.”

“And you haven’t dealt with her yet?”

This time her grin is feral and bloodthirsty, “I knew you’d want that honor.”

A dark chuckle reverberates through Geralt’s chest and he knows the look on his face would scare the fiercest creatures back into their dens.

“How kind of you.”

Yennefer perches on the desk, popping a grape into her mouth and looking every bit the Arlessa the people in this fief need.

“What can I say? I’m considerate like that.”

Geralt cannot help but chuckle and he sits down to enjoy the roast beef. He doesn’t ask about Jaskier, but Yennefer lets a few tidbits slip while they eat. By the time he retires for the night, Geralt knows that the curse has been slowed by Triss Merigold and Jaskier is safe in the north.

“Inga's hold up somewhere along Strept’s mountains.” Yennefer tells him when morning has settled over the area.

Roach nearly walks off without Geralt, her eagerness fueling his own. Geralt secures the bundle of herbs and potions Yennefer spent the night gathering for him. Once seated, he takes Roach’s reins in hand and nods to Yennefer.

Her voice stops him, “Geralt, there’s something else…”

“Don’t.”

Yennefer cocks her brow and he knows how much she hates being interrupted, but she almost said something that isn’t hers to say.

“You’re going to tell me something about Jaskier’s curse, thinking it will motivate me. I assure you Yen; I am sufficiently motivated right now.”

Geralt shakes his head when she opens her mouth, but he softens his eyes and reaches down to place a hand on her shoulder.

“He can tell me himself. I plan to make a quick stop in Cintra after I’ve dealt with the witch: Then, Temeria.”

“You could just go to him first, deal with Inga later.” Yennefer reasons and Geralt would be lying if that hadn’t occurred to him earlier.

“He won’t believe my sincerity.”

It hurts when Yennefer pauses and then nods her head slowly, recognizing the truth of his words. She contemplates telling him about the numerous times she’d tried to convince Jaskier of Geralt’s affection, but the faraway look in his golden eyes tells her she doesn’t need to.

‘ _Self-awareness is a good look on you_ ,’ she thinks.

“You’d better have one hell of an apology planned Geralt. He was already hurting before you shoved him off that mountain.”

“Hmm.”

“Eloquent as always,” Yennefer sighs. “Happy hunting.”

Geralt nods and doesn’t look back as he nudges Roach forward. It takes him two weeks to reach the mountains; another three days to find the right cave entrance. He leaves Roach at the opening and heads inside.

He reaches what appears to be a cave-in, but the air shimmers against the boulders. An enchantment to dissuade guests doesn’t stop Geralt and he passes through the illusion without hesitating.

“At last, he has found me.”

Inga stands in front of a blazing hearth. Geralt’s traded cave for cabin and he’d be impressed under different circumstances: Her magic is powerful.

“Tell me witcher, are you here to kill me.”

“No.”

“Indeed? I’m inclined to believe you.”

Geralt grunts, eyes darting around the cabin’s interior before settling back upon the witch. Yennefer had told him that there hadn’t been any new villages cursed in the past eight months, which had unsettled both of them.

“I heard you retired.”

Inga laughs before gesturing for Geralt to have a seat at the table to his left. He doesn’t reach for the food, but she doesn’t seem offended.

“You could say that I suppose.”

“Why the change in heart?” he asks genuinely curious as he recalls their last two meetings.

The glint in her eyes sets Geralt on edge; his senses screaming at him to leave the spider’s web before he is devoured.

“My efforts are about to pay off witcher.”

“In fact,” she teases, “he gets closer and closer to perfection the longer you sit here wasting time with me.”

Geralt envisions decapitating her and the witch throws her head back and cackles shamelessly.

“Men like you are so predicable; rough and world-weary, rejecting the slightest hint of affection from those too tender-hearted to know when you quit.”

She leans across the table, her thick begonia perfume wreaking havoc with Geralt’s ability to focus. He imagines wrapping his hands around her throat and choking the life from her body like the vines in Jaskier’s lungs.

Geralt lashes out, quick as a snake, and pulls her by the cloak until their noses are brushing.

“He’ll die if you kill me and he’ll die if you stay here,” she hisses through clenched teeth and Geralt already figured out the life-link spell when he saw the brand on her left wrist so her words hold no power over him.

Instead he grins, baring his fangs like the monster he’s been called for decades, and his reply unexpectedly adds a new rule to the unspoken game.

“I want you to curse me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun, dun, dun!!
> 
> So I had the last sentence of this fic figured out long before the rest of it so yay me. However I've been trying to brainstorm the 3rd (and final) chapter and I've got nothing! Between work and being out of town, I probably won't be getting any writing done for a few days so sorry about that. 
> 
> I can't wait for y'all to find out what flowers Geralt vomits though!


	3. Our Harvest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank everyone enough for being so incredibly supportive during this fic *and my other Witcher fics* so please accept my humble appreciation and this 3rd chapter. I hope the wait was worth it!

"I have thorns beneath my skin that do not hesitate  
to draw blood when held tightly  
Please do not pull away;  
they’re guarding the flowers hiding from  
the storm in my weathered ribcage.  
Rough hands plucked their petals  
and left bitter roots behind –  
my insides a woodland massacre.  
But, your warm touch cultivates a garden  
I want to know; a place I forgot existed"  
  
– MBK (with spring comes rebirth)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Somewhere, the witch is laughing at him.

‘ _Yennefer probably is too’_ Geralt reasons, ‘ _but not Triss_.’

They would have every right to find amusement in Geralt’s predicament, but the perpetual hourglass in the back of his mind reminds him how precious time is and how little he has left.

His meditation is interrupted by a violent cough; the familiar taste of blood is swiftly followed by a smattering of bluebell petals on his prison floor. Their vibrant pigment reminds him of Jaskier’s favorite doublet and thinking of Jaskier makes his ribs feel as if a tree is trying to grow through them.

“That didn’t look enjoyable.”

Weakly, Geralt laughs and wipes a trail of blood streaked saliva from his chin. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“You say that as if you volunteered to be cursed.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything and Mousesack guffaws in disbelief.

“No! Surely you jest?”

“Do I look like I’m laughing Mousesack?”

Geralt must look a sight; hair disheveled, dark circles under his eyes and the occasional petal flecked with blood falls from his mouth with the slightest exhale.

“No, my old friend you are not.”

Even surrounded by thick stone, Geralt hear the sounds of movement above. Soldiers preparing for war and servants preparing for the worst should Cintra fall. Mousesack cannot hear the frightened whispers in the corridors, but Geralt can. However, he knows appealing to his friend will not set him free, so he waits.

“May I ask why?”

The witch had asked Geralt the same question albeit with less concern for his well-being than Mousesack.

“It is the only way he’ll believe me.”

“Well that…” Mousesack pauses as if he can’t believe what he’s going to say next, “that sounded almost romantic.”

Geralt can’t believe he said it either and his grimace makes Mousesack chuckle fondly. The silence that follows is warm; both of them not liking where the other stands, but unable to do anything about it.

“Go.” Geralt eventually says, “Protect the princess and I’ll come for her when I can.”

Mousesack nods, but lingers a moment longer before touching the bars gently with his fist: The sound of his retreating footsteps echo in the cavernous hallway. Geralt doubts he’ll see his friend again so he goes back to meditating and waits.

When his chance comes it is too late.

Geralt fights with a ferocity expected of his kind; ruthless with every slit throat and punctured artery until the stench of blood soaks into the ground where it will stay for decades after the slaughter. The occasional cough wracks his insides, but Geralt pushes through the pain until he realizes Princess Cirilla is long gone.

‘ _The girl in the woods will be with you always. She is your destiny_.’

Renfri’s words continue to haunt him as he searches for clues. The echo of strangers’ fear overwhelms his senses until he has no choice but to leave the graveyard Cintra has become. He looks to the east where the trees stand tall and follows the trail of desperate refuges.

Bluebell petals mark his path and Geralt indulges in a dozen dizzy daydreams of reuniting with his bard; their kiss an amalgam of nature’s beauty.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_“He’ll die before you reach him.”_

_Geralt’s fingers have splinters from the force of his hand on the table. His left palm aches under his weight and he attempts to right himself; back strained from hacking and heaving until a stalk of purple aster forced itself from his throat._

_“You might die too.” Inga seems almost surprised, “I didn’t expect the effects to kick in so quickly. Poor witcher, you really are in love.”_

_Pity laces her tone and Geralt spits a thick clot of blood at her feet in retaliation. Teeth locked in a feral snarl he stumbles before standing upright for the first time in ten minutes as the spell settles._

_“I will endure.”_

_Reluctantly impressed, Inga finds herself believing his statement and settles back into her chair which she leapt from when Geralt collapsed. The atmosphere in the cabin eventually calms and she watches Geralt pocket the handful of petals he spat on her wooden floor. He tucks the purple aster into the folds of his armor just above his heart and the gesture almost makes her smile._

_“If only everyone loved with your conviction witcher, perhaps then my methods wouldn’t be necessary.”_

_“Necessary?” Geralt growls and gestures to his spilled blood, “you call this necessary?”_

_She hums, “I do not expect you to understand, but I have been given a purpose in this life.”_

_She doesn’t see him roll his eyes, but his disbelief is palpable as it hangs between them. “You sound like every other witch with a God complex – thinking their powers are meant to shape the world to their liking.”_

_“Perhaps,” Inga agrees, “but that doesn’t change what I believe. She came to me as a young child and I listened, witcher. Whether or not you believe in the divine – in the existence of the old Gods – doesn’t matter in the end.”_

_“What does matter?” Geralt asks._

_“That it ends with you.”_

_Geralt cocks his head, wary of her answer to the question he doesn’t need to ask aloud._

_“If you find the bard and confess my curse will break – sparing all those afflicted as well as securing your own happiness. If you fail, the bard will turn into a conduit and only those who come across his magnificence will be marked in the future.”_

_“You’re dying,” Geralt surmises and Inga nods._

_“A sliver of my life-force is required to embed the curse into the lungs. You and the bard however, have taken more than I initially intended. No matter the outcome, I will leave this mortal coil.”_

_She lets the glamour fade and Geralt takes in her limp gray hair and milky eyes and sighs with something close to sympathy though Inga pouts at the sound._

_“I’ll not have your pity witcher: I have lived a life.”_

_Geralt feels another bought of coughing coming on so he decides to lick his wounds in private, turning to leave her bespelled cabin once and for all. Before he can slip from the enchantment back into the cold mountain cave, Inga calls out his name and he pauses._

_“You may not believe me, but I hope you reach him in time. Maybe old age has gotten to me, but this world has seen enough tragedy and more is still to come. Find your princess and kiss that bard of yours. Goddess knows he could use a good one, if only to shut him up.”_

_Indignant on Jaskier’s behalf, Geralt huffs and Inga’s amused wheeze follows him back to Roach who whickers in relief. She lips at his wrist and he runs a comforting hand down her neck until she’s quieted._

_“There isn’t much time,” he confesses as the weight of the situation finally hits his battered chest._

_Roach snorts in the face of his despair and he smiles, soft and grateful._

_“You’re right, let’s go.”_

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jaskier didn’t let his impending death interfere with his performing.

When he realized Yennefer expected him to stay in Temeria – more specifically stay in bed where Triss could coddle him – he revolved.

“I will not be confined to a bed in a tower like some maiden with consumption while you two flutter about until I suffocate on these dammed flowers!”

“Jask…” Yennefer began, but Triss approached the bard with hands raised to placate him.

“You don’t have to.”

“Triss!”

“I will travel with him and keep his condition stable,” Triss continued as if Yennefer hadn’t interrupted, _‘While you look for Geralt.’_

Yennefer pretended to verbally disagree with Triss’ plan as they communicated silently in hopes of hiding their real intentions from Jaskier.

‘ _I’ll meet you in Vengerberg_ ,’ Yennefer tells Triss before turning to address Jaskier who was trying – and failing – to hide his smug satisfaction.

“Do not push yourself too hard.”

‘ _Yes mother_ ,’ hangs on the tip of his tongue, but the unintended cruelty of the quip knocks the words from his lips. Jaskier hides behind a forced cough and feels bad when Yennefer reaches out to steady him.

“I’ll be careful Yen,” he promises reaching out to squeeze her hand on his shoulder. She knows he means it without peeking into his mind and Triss’ promises make it easier to pull away.

She doesn’t use a portal and Jaskier watches her ride out of town on her flaxen chestnut mare he’d dubbed ‘Maggie’ after finding out her previous owner choked to death on thick magnolia petals.

“We’ll see her again,” Triss promises.

“Of course we will,” Jaskier tries to sound confident, but it comes out unsure. Something tells him their reunion will be later than any of them are expecting. The common folk are skittish as if sensing a storm on the horizon: Rumors of soldiers in black marching from the south are whispered in alleys and the back of taverns.

Jaskier thinks of Geralt and wonders, not for the first time, where he is.

“Where are we going?” Triss asks once they’ve finished packing.

Jaskier thinks about it for a moment and remembers the last time he headed north. “It’s been a few years since I was in Oxenfurt. After that we should go to Novigrad.”

Triss nods, “We won’t be far from Tretogor either. I have friends there who might be able to help with your ailment as well.”

“It’s settled then.”

Triss is delightful company and is quick with her spells once he nearly falls off his horse when a coughing fit hits. They leave decaying bouquets in the woods where they camp and with each passing day the flowers lose their colors. One day he pulls a strand of brittle honeysuckle from the depths of his throat, gagging until vomit joins the wilted flora on the dirt path.

Triss doesn’t have to voice her concern because it wears on him like a wool cloak; itchy and hot until he’s a sweating mess.

They reach Oxenfurt and Jaskier introduces Triss to his friends from the university. He eases back into the community, singing at local taverns who welcome him with open arms. Some nights he plays for hours straight while others force him to take long breaks in between encores because he cannot breathe. A handful of acquaintances inquire about his health, but he cuts Triss off before she can explain the severity of his condition.

“It’s just a chest cold; nothing to worry about! Those mountains held no regard for my poor lungs.”

Unimpressed, Triss watches him charm the masses with his player façade only to rub soothing circles on his back when the mask slips at night. Pollen coats his tongue from the wilted camellias that refuse to slow their assent.

“Oh Jaskier,” Triss laments after she finds a chunk of willow root in the pile of petals, “it’s getting worse.”

From his position on the bed across the room Jaskier sniffles as tears pour unbidden from his eyes. His open shirt reveals the dark brown tint of his skin, thick like leather as his body prepares to turn flesh to bark.

“We should leave for Novigrad in the morning,” Triss says sitting on the end of the bed. “There are a few apothecaries I want to restock at.”

“Have you heard from Yennefer?” Jaskier asks jerking his head towards the silver box on the dresser.

Triss nods, “She’s heading to Nazair to connect with an old friend from our time at Aretuza.”

“She hasn’t come across Geralt or the witch who cursed you,” Triss answers the unasked question written on Jaskier’s face.

“Oh.”

“I thought you didn’t want her to tell Geralt,” Triss reminds and Jaskier waves her words away as if they were relentless bees.

“I know, I know, but I didn’t expect her to listen.”

Triss’ smile is understanding and it makes Jaskier uncomfortable but he is too tired to squirm so he just sighs and closes his eyes.

“I’ve known Yennefer for a long time and I love her as one does a sister. I’ll admit, I’m a little surprised at the fondness you share for each other.”

“You mean because of our relationship with Geralt?”

“I’ve seen people squabble over less than the attentions of a man,” Triss confesses and Jaskier finds the strength to laugh.

“There’s a type of affection for someone who loves the person you love: It creates a bond between two people because we know what it’s like; what he’s like.”

His voice is gentle, eyes unfocused as if he’s traveled untold miles to be with someone else. His words are similar to Yennefer’s which makes Triss’ heart clench beneath her rib cage.

‘ _He chose to walk beside Geralt; kept him company and bandaged his wounds. Geralt may have wanted me when we first met, but the bard had already made a home for himself at his side. Geralt was just too scared to hang his cloak by the hearth_.’

Jaskier falls asleep before Triss can reply so she tucks the blankets around him and waits to the curse to interrupt his rest. By the time morning arrives he’s woken four times and Triss calls for a bath to wash the blood from his neck and chest.

The ride to Novigrad is uneventful, but they’re not there long before trouble shows up. They’ve barely settled into the inn before someone enters their shared room and Triss’ heart sinks into her stomach.

“Nilfgard marches for Cintra. The council is holding a vote and your presence is required.”

Jaskier’s eyes flick from Triss to their guest and she can read the panic gathering in their background.

“Jaskier, may I introduce Tissaia de Vries. She’s the Rectoress of Aretuza. Tissaia, this is Jaskier and he is under my care. I cannot abandon him.”

Before Tissaia can reply Jaskier leaps from his chair and he’s shaking, “You have to go. Triss, if Cintra is in danger you have to stop Nilfgard.”

The vehemence in his voice startles Triss and she reaches out to soothe his agitation, but Tissaia studies him carefully.

“And why does the fate of Cintra concern you? Is Cintra your home?”

Jaskier shakes his head, “No, but I know the Queen and Princess Cirilla. Nilfgard doesn’t leave survivors; they’ll be slaughtered.”

“Besides, who’s to say they’ll stop with Cintra?”

The flicker of respect in Tissaia’s eyes catches Triss off guard until she register’s Jaskier’s words.

“Jaskier, if I leave you…” she trails off not wanting to divulge too much, but Jaskier waves her concern away.

“I have enough potions to last a few weeks.”

“Yennefer would never forgive me if I leave you.”

Jaskier scoffs, “Yennefer’s probably already on her way to Aretuza to help. Maybe not willingly, but still… she’d fight Nilfgard. You should be with her: I don’t trust her not to get herself killed.”

Tissaia’s does not react visibly to Yennefer’s name, but Triss can feel the conflicting emotions swirling around her former teacher from the affection in Jaskier’s voice.

Jaskier reaches out and takes Triss’ hands in his own – squeezing tight to reinforce his words, “If I know Geralt, and I’d like to think I know him better than most, he’s already on his way to Cintra. Princess Cirilla is his child surprise and despite our last conversation I know he’ll protect her.”

“If you and the others can help save hundreds of lives – and maybe make Geralt feel bad in the process when you see him – then you have to go.”

Triss’ laugh is wet and she pulls him close, hugging him tight enough to make him squeak. She lets go before her actions can trigger an attack and his eyes are wet like hers.

“Head to Vengerberg when you’re finished here: Yennefer has a shop there and its caretaker is waiting for you.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, but nods anyway when Triss fixes him with a stern frown. “We’ll come for you when all of this is over.”

“Just come back in one piece the both of you.”

“Be alive when we do.”

Triss doesn’t linger even though leaving the room is a battle onto itself. She can feel Jaskier watch her walk through the portal with Tissaia and she says a quick prayer to whoever’s listening that they’ll meet again.

Jaskier does the same.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

After days of hiding his illness from Ciri, it comes to a head when he slides off Roach’s saddle.

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ Geralt thinks when Ciri’s panicked cry hits his ears over the sound of his coughing. Chunks of bloodied clover hit the forest floor and when Ciri eventually rushes to her side and sees the flowers her panic increases.

“Why are you throwing up flowers? Geralt are you dying? What do I do?”

He tries to comfort her as the flora continues to expel itself from his lungs, but he can barely offer comfort when his mouth isn’t occupied with flowers, so it doesn’t go well. Eventually Ciri calms herself with deep breaths and when Geralt’s coughing slows she shoves the waterskin into his hands.

“Thank you.”

His voice is rough like cloth dragged through broken glass and his throat burns beneath the water. He picks flower parts from his teeth and there are petals stuck to the bottom of his tongue. Geralt swirls some water in his mouth and spits into a bush.

Ciri watches, eyes wide with fascination and fear.

“How long have you been sick?” she eventually asks.

Geralt pauses to consider the question and he realizes there are two answers he could give and settles on the less severe one.

“Six weeks.”

“Are you going to die like the others?”

Geralt squints when a beam of sun hits his eyes just right and a headache flares to life, his hands coming to cup his head. He can hear Ciri digging around his bag of potions and when she hands him the correct bottle he cannot stop his smile.

“You know of this curse?” he asks once the forest stops spinning.

“My grandfather told me about it when I was a little girl. Probably not the best bedtime story, but he made it sound romantic. Seeing it now…” Ciri trails off and bends down to touch the while clover. “It looks painful.”

“Some would say love is painful.”

“You sound like my grandmother.” Ciri’s smile is fleeting, “She hated that story, but Mousesack told me it was because Eist almost died from pink dahlias shortly after they were married: His devotion was as obvious as a full moon on a cloudless night, but my grandmother was stubborn and didn’t voice it until much later.”

She giggles at the quirk of Geralt’s eyebrows, “Yep. When grandmother realized what was happening she had all the vases filled with flowers tossed from the tower. Flowers weren’t allowed back into the castle until I turned eight.”

“Hmm.”

Ciri helps him stand and they’re moving down the road once more. He can feel her curiosity and knows there will be more questions later. The small village they come across is a mixture of refugees and northern loyalists. He has enough coin for a room and two plates of food, but Geralt realizes he’ll have to ask for work if they’re to sleep indoors in the future.

They had put a good distance between them and Nilfgard forces, but Geralt knows they will not quit so easily. He debates on the merits of heading towards Sodden when he hears about the battle between Aretuza’s witches and Nilfgard, but deems it too dangerous: There’s no telling how many soldiers survived.

He wonders if Yennefer was at the battle and decides she had to have been when someone talks about the entire forest being swallowed by fire.

‘ _Sounds like Yen alright_ ,’ he muses.

Thanks to her Geralt knows Jaskier is safe up north, but he doesn’t know exactly where. He wants to get Ciri to the safety of Kaer Morhen, but knows Jaskier won’t last if he waits much longer.

He needs to find Yennefer.

“Fuck,” he mumbles into his beer and Ciri’s eyes are alight with unasked questions.

He shakes his head and Ciri lets it go for now. When they retire for the night he tucks the blanket around her and meditates on the floor next to the bed. He is close in case a nightmare interrupts her slumber and when she begins to whimper, Geralt stands and runs a careful hand along her forehead.

“You are safe.”

A few minutes later she stills and the scent of fear recedes. He sighs and watches her until he’s certain the nightmare has moved on. He meditates for the next five hours and when she stirs he opens his eyes to see her curled on her right side, eyes fixed on his face.

“Are we going to look for them?”

“Them?” he asks trying to remember the last thing the talked about the night previous.

She flushes, “I didn’t want to assume your love was a woman.”

Geralt reaches out and pets her hair, “His name is Jaskier. I know he’s somewhere up north, but we need to find Yennefer. She knows where he is.”

Ciri’s eyes light up and the bright scent of joy fills the room. After siting up she tosses the blanket to the end of the bed and demands, “What are we waiting around for then?”

Amused, Geralt watches her throw on her cloak and gloves and when she turns he is already standing with their bags in hand. The innkeeper’s wife shoves a bundle of bread into his hand and tells him to take care of his daughter before they leave.

“Though I suspect she’s safer than most with a witcher at her side.”

Ciri leans into his side and Geralt melts a little at her show of affection. He thanks the woman and once outside he helps Ciri onto Roach. They continue their journey north, giving Sodden a wide berth and camping in a dell to the east when the sun sets.

Once fed, Ciri’s restraint breaks and the questions come faster than Geralt can process them.

“You said his name is Jaskier, is it the same Jaskier who sang at our court every year? I love his music!”

Geralt, who had no idea Jaskier went back to Cintra when they were apart, feels his heart squeeze painfully in his chest when he nods. 

“He tells the best stories and he could make Grandmother laugh when you least expected.”

“Jaskier is good at that,” Geralt confesses quietly.

“He was supposed to be there that night, but he never showed. I had wondered if something happened to him…” Ciri trails off and pulls her bottom lip into her mouth; teeth worrying it until she begins to peel the skin back.

“Hey there,” Geralt cautions, “you’ll start bleeding.”

Ciri pouts, but lets her lip escape the brutal treatment before turning out another question.

“How long have you known him?”

“Twenty years, give or take a few.”

She furrows her brow, “I thought you said you’d only been sick a few weeks. Did you fall in love recently?”

Geralt starts to feel like a caged bear beneath her stare, but he swallows his reticence and tells her an abridged version from noticing Jaskier’s ailment to tracking down the witch and asking to be cursed.

Her eyes are wide and she doesn’t blink until he’s finished, “So you wanted to prove to Jaskier that your feelings were sincere. There’s no way he could doubt the witch’s curse since he’s been suffering from it for years.”

Geralt nods and Ciri’s smile is sweet, “My grandfather would’ve liked you.”

Geralt snorts, “He’s the one who threw me in your dungeons.”

“Well,” Ciri shrugs, “nobody is perfect.”

The cackling fire fills the following silence until Geralt begins to choke on a bushel of edelweiss: Their white petals filling the clearing with a subtle aroma. His instincts tell him he’s dying which is the only reason he voices the fear that’s been with him since he saw Yennefer last.

“He probably hates me.”

“That might be the dumbest thing you’ve ever said Geralt and that’s saying something.”

Ciri whips to her feet, arms splayed out to shield Geralt when she hears the new voice on the opposite side of their camp.

“Yen,” he gasps through fits, “what took you so long?”

Yennefer uncorks a bottle and gives it to Ciri who doesn’t hesitate to press it to Geralt’s lips. The potion cools his throat and puts an end to the floral upheaval. Yennefer shakes her head slowly as she takes in his crouched form.

“Of all the foolhardy things you could’ve done…”

“It ends with us.”

Yennefer hums thoughtfully while Ciri, once more, helps Geralt off his weak knees. 

“Can you take us to Jaskier?” Ciri eventually asks once Geralt no longer needs her help to stand.

“Of course I can sweet thing.”

Yennefer opens a portal and doesn’t look back. Ciri grabs Roach’s reins and waits for Geralt at the edge of Yennefer’s swirling magic. Slowly, as if walking towards a hangman’s noose, Geralt approaches the portal and nearly collapses when the familiar scent of chamomile and sandalwood wafts through: Followed quickly by the voice that haunted his dreams for months.

“Geralt?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jaskier is certain he has died when he opens the shop door and sees Yennefer.

Her shop is tucked away from the main square so there is no foot traffic to witness her return. Jaskier opens his mouth to say her name, but all thought is wiped from his mind when a familiar mare, led by a girl he hasn’t seen in almost two years, follows. Princess Cirilla’s eyes light up when she sees him and Jaskier’s mind goes blank from the overload.

Jaskier is certain he has died when Geralt exits the dying portal.

“Geralt?” he asks lightheaded and he’d be embarrassed at the tears if he were aware they were streaking down his face. A beat, his heart stutters and then another beat when their eyes lock for the first time in months.

Before anyone can say anything more, Jaskier snaps forward and it’s more blood than flora that slides from his chapped lips.

Geralt is there to stop his knees from meeting thick cobblestone and Yennefer is yelling for Triss who’s already behind Jaskier with a flask of foul smelling concoction. Together the three of them help Jaskier upstairs to the guest room – the shop spelled like all of Yennefer’s belongings to be bigger on the inside.

How they don’t trip over each other is a mystery to Jaskier and when his door is thrown open he’s brought to the bed while Triss attempts to ease the tincture down his throat.

Roots have blocked his airways and he’s dying. The mixture pours uselessly out of his mouth making a mess of the silk sheets and his white tunic. He yanks violently at the vines that sneak past his teeth like snakes.

Jaskier cannot string two thoughts together too focused on Geralt’s wide eyes that hold a dozen words for despair. His own words are lost in spit and blood; Jaskier’s tongue thick and uncoordinated like it was coated in sap. He’s not sure what’s worse: Seeing Geralt fall to pieces around him or dying before he could confess his love.

‘ _Both_ ,’ Jaskier faintly thinks before darkness knocks and forces its way through the back door. ‘ _They both suck._ ’

Shouts of panic fill the space and he can’t make out what’s being said until Geralt cups his face with both hands and shouts loud enough for the people outside to look up in confusion.

“I love you!”

Jaskier’s vision, which had started going dark around the edges, slowly brightens and the pressure in his chest lessens slightly. The honeysuckle goes limp and when it’s pulled from his mouth its roots tickle the top of his mouth. 

“Jaskier, I love you.”

Seconds ago the room had been filled with noise but with Geralt’s words Jaskier’s heavy pants are all that remain: Everyone else holding their breath.

“Say it back you idiot!” There’s a hysterical edge to Yennefer’s voice that Jaskier doesn’t understand until a drop of blood slips through Geralt’s lips.

Jaskier knows a dozen different words for terror and they all flee when Geralt slides to the ground, a foreign bushel of flora decorating the floor. Vibrant purple aster and brilliant bluebells force themselves from Geralt’s lungs in time to signal the white clover and edelweiss.

Jaskier slides off the bed and copies Geralt’s movement until his shaking hands are cradling Geralt’s flushed cheeks. He sputters, trying to remember how to talk as he gently brushes pink buckwheat petals off Geralt’s lips. They part beneath his touch and Jaskier takes a deep breath – the first in he can’t recall how long – and presses his forehead against Geralt’s.

“While I appreciate the gesture, I’m going to kick your ass once you’re better.”

Yennefer’s wordless groan of exasperation makes them chuckle although Geralt’s sounds more painful than Jaskier’s unencumbered amusement.

He doesn’t break eye contact with Geralt when the door opens, but he knows Cirilla has joined them and Triss’ sympathetic assurances make Jaskier feel guilty for dragging this out. Geralt tries to hold back his coughs, which Jaskier knows is futile and painful, so he brushes his thumb underneath Geralt’s golden eyes and they’re so full of love it makes breathing easier than it’d ever been before.

“Of course I love you Geralt.”

The words have barely left his mouth when he leans forward to kiss the taste of flora from Geralt’s bloodied mouth. Geralt wastes no time tangling his hands in Jaskier’s hair and they’re alone suddenly; the sound of squeals behind a closed door making Jaskier giddy with relief.

He pulls back in time for Geralt to expel the last of Inga’s curse between them.

“A little presumptuous, don’t you think?” Jaskier teases as his fingers trail over the stem of buckwheat.

“Optimistic,” Geralt corrects and Jaskier cannot stop himself from leaning in to kiss the soft blush dusting his cheeks.

There’s a lot to talk about: Apologies that need saying and a scolding that’ll end with broken gasps of pleasure. Geralt’s hands seem determined to drive thought from Jaskier’s mind as they trail down his back and pull him closer. A mess, physically and emotionally, Jaskier lets Geralt maneuver him until he’s straddling Geralt’s waist. He throws his arms over Geralt’s shoulders and their chests are pressed together; hearts pounding away beneath their flowerless rib cages.

“As far as gestures go, that was pretty damn impressive. Foolish,” Jaskier reprimands knocking his forehead gently into Geralt’s, “but impressive.”

“Worth the risk,” Geralt says without an ounce of regret which drives Jaskier a little bit crazy as he melts beneath Geralt’s knowing smirk.

“Smug bastard,” Jaskier rocks his hips and grins when Geralt’s hands grip his hips to increase the pressure.

“That’s smitten bastard to you,” Geralt teases and nudges their noses together, lips barely a breath apart.

Jaskier crumbles and hides his face in Geralt’s neck, pressing kisses into the flesh he plans to mark later. He’s dizzy, stomach alive with butterflies and liquid fire threatens to consume him when he finally looks up and sees the heat in Geralt’s eyes.

“This would make a great song you know.”

Geralt chuckles and his reply is swallowed by Jaskier’s needy lips when he decides talking is overrated. The faint taste of nature lingers on their tongues and by the time they wake in the morning all they can taste is each other.

On the bedside table rests a recently crafted vase and the sappiest arrangement of flowers ever twined together. Jaskier laughs when Geralt moves to throw the bouquet out of the window and manages to convince him to leave them alone. No one comes knocking and they do not feel the need to move.

Around the continent strangers celebrate the breaking of a curse and a witch plants herself on a hill content to sink into the earth; a beacon of hope for lovers everywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More flower meanings yay!
> 
> Dahlia (pink) = Commitment  
> Aster (purple) = Love, Afterthought *wish things had happened differently*  
> Bluebell = Humility, gratitude, everlasting love  
> Clover (white) = Think of me, be mine  
> Edelweiss = Devotion, courage  
> Buckwheat = Lover
> 
> So, the last one... I totally pulled from my favorite Kdrama and have no regrets. Also, that poem at the beginning is one of mine from forever ago. Thank you again for reading and commenting and being such a fun/supportive/encouraging fandom to be a part of. I have two other Witcher fics in the mix so keep an eye out for those beauties.


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